"But what a deadly bore, Jesus," Jim said.
"She has a very healthy bosom," Sammy observed.
"Very. Healthy," Bucky agreed.
"Spanish girls have healthy bosoms," Jim said from left field.
"Also."
"Here's to Serafina Amaglio," Bucky said, lifting his glass.
"And to Spanish girls," Jim said.
"Also."
"And to healthy bosoms."
"And strong legs."
"And clean teeth."
"And Pepsodent toothpaste." They all drank.
"I know where there are Spanish girls," Sammy Horn said.
"Where?"
"Uptown."
"Where uptown?"
"A street called Mason Avenue. You know it?"
'""Jo."
"It's uptown There are Spanish girls with healthy bosoms and strong legs and clean teeth on that street." Sammy nodded.
"Gentlemen," he said, "it is time we made a decision. What time is it, Bucky old pot?"
"It is 6:25," Bucky said, glancing at his watch.
"And three-quarters. When you hear the tone, it will be 6:26." He paused.
"Bong!" he said.
"It's getting late, men," Sammy said.
"It's later than we think, men. For cris sakes men, We may be dead someday!
Then what? Away we go, men, to bleed on foreign soil."
"Christ!" Bucky said, awed.
"So … do we wait for Miss Amaglio to take off her blouse, which I am reasonably certain she will never do, despite the healthiness of her remarkable bosom? Or shall we slither off uptown to this wonderful street called Mason Avenue, there to explore foreign soil without the attendant dangers of total warfare? What do you think, men?"
The men were silent, thinking.
"Consider well, men," Sammy said. He paused.
"This may be our finest hour."
The men considered well.
"Let's go get laid," Bucky said.
Standing at the bulletin board near the light switch, Hawes wrote into his pad aimlessly, waiting for the precise moment of attack. Ideally that moment should be when Virginia Dodge was at the other end of the room. Unfortunately, she showed no signs of moving from the desk behind which she sat in deadly earnestness, staring at the bottle of colorless fluid.
Well then, Hawes thought, the hell with the ideal. Let's just hope she turns her back for a minute, just to give me enough time to snap off the lights.
That's all I need. Just a moment while she turns away, and then the lights go off, and I reach for the gun, left-hand pocket of the coat, mustn't grab for the right-hand pocket by mistake, Jesus, suppose one of the boys thinks there's been a power failure, suppose somebody strikes a match or turns on one of those damn battery powered emergency lights, is there one in the squad room sure, under the kneehole of the junk desk, oh Jesus, don't anybody get any bright ideas, please, pun unintentional, don't anybody throw any light on the subject, pun intentional, don't foul me up by being heroes.
Just let the lights go out, and sit tight, and let me get my mitts' on that pistol. Just three seconds. Stick my hand in the pocket, close it around the butt, pull it out, and shove the gun into the side pocket of my pants. That's all I need.
Now if she'd only turn her head.
I'm six inches from the light switch. All she has to do is turn her head, and I make my move.
Come on, Virginia darling, turn that deadly little ski of yours.
Virginia darling did not move a muscle.
Virginia seemed hypnotized by the bottle of nitro.
Suppose she whacks it off the desk the minute the lights go out?
No, she won't do that.
Suppose she does?
If she does, I'll get a demerit, and never get to make Detective 1st Grade.
Come on, you bitch, turn your head. Turn it!
There must be a God, Hawes thought. He watched in fascination as Virginia Dodge slowly but surely turned to look across the room toward the grilled windows.
Hawes moved instantly. His hand darted for the light panel, shoved downwards on the protruding plastic switch.
There was blackness, instant blackness which filled the room like a negative explosion.
"What the hell ?" Virginia started, and then her voice went dead, and there was only silence in the room.
The coat, Hawes thought.
Fast!
He felt the coarse material under his fingers, slid his hands down the side of the garment, felt the heavy bulk of the weapon in the pocket, and then thrust his hand into the slit, reaching for the gun.
And then suddenly, blindingly, unimaginably-the lights went on.
He felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
For a moment, he couldn't imagine what had caused the sudden blinding illumination. And then he realized the lights were on again, and here he was reaching into the pocket of Virginia's coat, his fingers not an inch from the gun. Oddly, time seemed to lose all meaning as soon as the lights went on. He knew that time was speeding by at a remarkable clip, knew that whatever he did in the next few seconds could very well mean the life or death of everyone in the room, and yet time seemed to stop.
He decided, in what seemed to take three years, to whirl on Virginia with the revolver in his hand.
